Never Loved at All
by ALMH
Summary: Harry/Ruth, set sometime post 8.3, although no real spoilers for 8.3, .2. The fifth part in my Spooks for a Year challenge.


"She doesn't love me any more." Those were the words that went through his head every morning when he woke, every hour of the day, every night before he went to sleep and in every dream he had. During his lonelier moments this phrase was replaced with another. "She never loved me."

He thought she had loved him, once. Why did she kiss him if she didn't? But if she had loved him, why wouldn't she let him tell her he loved her? Women were complicated, that he knew. Divorce was even more complicated, but not quite as complicated as Ruth. It was easier to work out a politician's secret agenda than it was to work out Ruth's feelings for him. He knew her favourite author, her favourite flower, why she never got on with her step-brother. He knew secrets about her past that no one else knew. She knew his too. She knew everything about him. Around her he had no secrets. He couldn't - she broke through his defences too easily, normally without even realising it. She could make him change his mind whenever he was being too obstinate to realise that he was doing something wrong. He needed her. He loved her too much to let go. He didn't know what he would do if she ever said she didn't love him. He hoped he would never find out.

He was sick of the uncertainty. Someone times he wished for her to say how she felt. Other times he preferred the blissful ignorance. He would let her take the lead, to lead the way through this... something. He didn't even know what this was, it wasn't -

"Harry," he heard someone say, jolting him back to reality. He was in his office, and looked to the doorway to look at the woman who had just interrupted his internal monologue. Ruth stood there, looking a mixture of impatient, concerned and slightly amused, and perhaps a little nervous. He wondered if she knew he had been thinking about her.

"Sorry," he apologised and she walked in, holding a pile of files close to her chest. Most of them went straight onto his desk, leaving her with only a couple.

"You need to sign these," she told him, slightly quieter than normal. He looked at her with concern.

"Ruth, are you ok?" She nodded, smiling at him, then quickly left. He watched her for a couple more moments, then resignedly opened the first file. He didn't want to scare her off by forcing conversation on her.

As he turned over the first page of the document he noticed an envelope, neatly held to the top of the next page, his name neatly inscribed in Ruth's handwriting. He looked up at her again, and saw her looking down at her work.

Neatly he opened it, taking out the letter that was inside.

"Dear Harry,

I don't really know where to start. I don't really know why I'm even writing this letter. I guess I'm writing it because you deserve to know the truth, and I should not have not said anything for so long. That doesn't really make sense, does it? I just don't know how to start, and a letter seemed a good way.

I'm sorry I blamed you for George's death. I've told you that already, but I need to tell you it again. I just felt so guilty about George. He shouldn't have been put in danger and that was all my fault. If I hadn't got involved with him, he and Nico would have been safe. And what makes this worse? I

Ok, this is the hard bit. It's just as hard to write as it is to say out loud. I'm sorry for mucking you both around. I... I hurt both of you, and for that I'm really sorry. I love you." The rest of the letter had been left unwritten, leaving half the page blank.

He kept the letter in his hand, looking out his window to Ruth's desk. Her light was still on - a good sign. He walked quickly out of his office, nearly walking into Tariq.

"I'll see you tomorrow Harry," he said cheerfully, walking to the door.

"Have you seen Ruth?" he asked as nonchalantly as he could.

"Forgery suite, finishing something off I think." Harry brushed past Tariq, ignoring the younger man's stare, and walked straight in. Ruth sat with her back to the door, her hand running through her hair. Suddenly she stopped and turned sharply around.

"Harry," she stammered. He took that as an invitation in and stepped closer.

"I read the letter -"

"-Harry -"

"Are you going to let me finish?" he asked. "I wanted to say... I wanted to say I'm sorry for letting you take the blame for Cotterdam, and not doing more -"

"It doesn't matter -"

"It does to me." They both paused. "I love you Ruth."

There was silence and suddenly both started smiling. Neither would be lonely any more.

"She loves me." Those were the words that went through his head every morning when he woke, every hour of the day, every night before he went to sleep and in every dream he had. During his happier moments this phrase was replaced with another. "She always loved me."


End file.
